


Companion Planting

by Gampyre



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Community Garden AU, M/M, Mutual Pining, Normal AU, Simon and Baz are grad students, Simon is a biology nerd, Slow Burn, quarantine fic, way too much info about slug mating rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24729892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre/pseuds/Gampyre
Summary: Baz and Simon are neighbors, and they're most certainly not friends. When their state goes into lockdown, they both wind up with a lot of time on their hands, and they spend it tending to adjacent plots in the community garden.Simon is a plant nerd who just wants to help, and Baz reluctantly learns more about garden pests and slug sex rituals than he ever wanted to know. Both learn a lot about each other, and as they cultivate their gardens side-by-side, they begin to cultivate a relationship, too.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 75
Kudos: 216





	1. Sunflowers don't play well with others

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be short. And then it morphed into three (maybe four?) chapters and 10k+ words. Apparently I, like quarantined Simon and Baz, have far too much time on my hands.
> 
> Anyway, here's the community garden AU that nobody asked for, complete with all sorts of fun facts about pest control and companion plants and weird animal mating rituals.
> 
> Set in America.

_Baz_

I set the final box of books in my car and slather my hands with an inch-thick glob of hand sanitizer. It’s excessive, I know, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Besides, I have plenty to spare. My cousin Dev is an epidemiologist, and predicted back in January that the coronavirus would hit the US pretty hard, so I stocked up on supplies well before the rest of the country started to panic. Just in case. (I'm a chronic worrier and usually over prepared for things. Sometimes it pays off.) 

Sanitizing wipes, sprays, and gels. Toilet paper and toiletries. Six months’ worth of non-perishable and frozen foods. Extra gasoline for my car. A set of weights and a yoga mat for home workouts. An upscale coffee machine to make my own lattes. Respiratory masks and latex gloves. 

The Surgeon General has been telling people not to buy the N95 respirators, to leave them for the doctors and nurses on the front lines. I’m not _exactly_ ignoring the request, since I bought mine ages ago. Besides, my own chronic, genetic respiratory issues put me in a “higher-risk” category should I catch the virus, so I don’t feel bad about hoarding what I have.

Not that I would feel bad anyway. I’m comfortable with my selfishness. (It's not something I'm proud of, but neither do I care enough to try to change.)

The university hasn’t shut down completely, but my department has been holding classes online for the past two weeks. I drove to campus early this morning to clear the essentials from my desk in the office I share with five other PhD students.

The “essentials” being nearly a hundred books, which are a huge pain in the ass (figuratively) and a pain in my back (literally) to lug down the stairs. It took me nine trips up and down to get everything to the car.

The building that houses the Latin languages department is visually stunning — an aesthetically balanced blend of red brick and deep green ivy — and simply brimming with history. It’s one of the things I love most about attending school here, but if you’d asked me this morning, I would have traded every ounce of that beauty and history just for one goddamn elevator.

Exhausted, I collapse into the driver’s seat and head home, half-listening to the COVID-19 pandemic updates on NPR radio and trying to ignore the spasms in my lower back. When I reach the parking lot of the complex, I take one look at the stairs going up to my second floor apartment and decide the books will be just fine sitting in my car. It can be my own personal library on wheels.

I see that my neighbor is working in the community garden again. He’s always out there, tending to plants. It’s mid-March, and he’s in a fucking tank top, his broad shoulders and toned arms on display for the whole world to see. A baseball cap covers his bronze curls and keeps the sun off of his freckled face. _Simon Snow_.

He stands and waves at me. The collar of his tank is cut so low that I can see a large portion of his bare torso, complete with a soft golden tangle of chest hair. I don't actually _know_ that it's soft, but I imagine it is. Not that I've imagined touching his chest. (I have.)

He’s sweating. It’s barely fifty degrees outside (warm for March, but still cold), and he’s sweating. It’s obscene. I don’t know how our other neighbors put up with it.

I ignore his wave, scowling at his indecency, and I jog up the last flight of stairs to my door. Inside, I busy myself with scheduling my next delivery of perishables (milk, cheese, meat, fruits and veggies) and try not to think about licking the drops of sweat off of his collarbone.

It’s impossible.

I think about him all the time.

I _see_ him all the time. That’s the problem. How am I supposed to ignore him when he’s everywhere? I see him in the laundry room, at the gym, on the lawn, at the library, in my favorite coffee shop (and my second-favorite coffee shop, after I started going there to avoid him), at the park, and even at the grocery store. 

I met him at orientation last year for the first-year PhD and Master’s students. He had a long-distance girlfriend at the time, but I didn’t make assumptions. I invited him to a few social events, but he declined every time. When I finally mustered enough courage to ask him out, he said yes, but I don’t think he realized it was a date. (Or worse, he did, but chose to play it off like it wasn’t.)

I invited him to come to one of the French club’s movie nights with me after I saw him in the French literature section of the library (I still don’t know what he was doing there). We met at the auditorium — me dressed in my favorite shirt and a nice pair of slacks, him dressed in sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt with a girlfriend he’d brought along (Penelope, I think her name was). 

I stopped trying after that, but he kept on saying hello to me every time we ran into each other like we were old pals, no matter how much I sneered and scowled and snarled at him. 

Persistent bastard. I truly cannot stand him. And yet, I can't keep my eyes or my mind off him.

* * *

_Simon_

I’m trying not to stress out so much over this whole lockdown thing. Our state enacted a stay-at-home order two days ago, and the university finally shut down all on-campus activities, which unfortunately includes my lab access. Not to mention that I lost my part time job at the campus bookstore.

With the microbiology labs closed, I can’t make progress on my degree, but I’m still paying for rent and tuition and stuff same as always. Unlike the PhD students, Master’s students don’t get a stipend, and the program is damn expensive. Without my part time job, I won’t be able to get through the rest of the year without taking on more student loans. 

The Ivy League degree better fucking be worth it.

No one else in my year is complaining; they’re all finishing up writing their theses, making plenty good use of their time in quarantine. Unfortunately, I had a major setback in my experiment last term, so I’m already a semester behind. I won’t have anything to write about in my thesis until I get some results, which is unlikely to happen this semester either, from the look of things. At this rate, I’ll finish an entire year behind everyone else.

I try not to think about how much debt I’m going to be in by then.

I don’t really know what to do with myself most days, since I don’t have a job or schoolwork to do, and I can’t hang out with my friend Penny in person anymore. I can’t even go to the apartment gym, since they shut that down. So, I’ve started spending most of my time in my little corner of the community garden.

I don’t need to be out there nearly as much as I am; it’s still early for planting season, and I can’t plant most things until there's no longer any danger of frost, so right now I just have onions and kale to worry about. I keep busy, though. I check each plant for pests, I monitor their growth, and I take my time prepping the soil.

When I run out of things to do to my own plot, I prep the soil in everyone else’s plots too.

Not that they’ve even been claimed by anyone yet. Most haven’t. The other tenants who use the community garden are casual gardeners, and they tend not to sign up for the garden or plant anything until late April or early May. It’s too late by then to plant the spring and early summer crops, but just fine for growing tomatoes, basil, and squash. Popular and easy to grow, those are. I always grow some tomatoes and basil myself.

I don’t mind prepping the garden plots for everyone else. It gives me something to do, and I always have leftover compost anyway. I like being helpful. Most people don’t know they should get their soil tested, or that the pH and nutrient levels need to be within a certain range for plants to grow properly. That can be tricky to know how to do, especially for new gardeners. So, I do it for them. I did it last year too, and people seemed pretty happy about it.

Today I’m out in the sun, working in the plot next to mine, mixing in the same soil amendments I mixed into my own plot, when _he_ storms out of his apartment and practically flies down the stairs. He looks angry, and he’s headed straight for me.

I don’t know what I did to make Baz hate me so much. He was nice enough when we met our first year — a little prickly and standoffish and pretentious, sure, but nice enough. He would say hello when he saw me around, and he even invited me to some social events. Dr. Mage made me work evenings and weekends in the lab so often that semester that I couldn’t go to most of the things Baz invited me to, but I went once, to watch an old foreign film. It was in French, but subtitled. It had a really funny scene where the characters sprinted through the Louvre, slipping and sliding across the polished floors while security tried to stop them.

I hoped Baz would invite me to another, since I enjoyed that one so much, but he kind of just stopped talking to me after that. And then he got mean. Whenever he looks at me, he just looks like he wants to deck me.

Like right now.

“Get out of my plot, Snow,” he growls.

“Sorry, Baz, I was just amending the soil for you. Thought it'd be helpful.”

“Did I ask you to touch my soil?” He’s standing exactly six feet in front of me now, glowering at me like I’ve just insulted his entire family.

“Uh, no,” I mutter. “I was doing this for all the plots. Didn’t actually know one was yours 'til now. Sorry.”

He glares at me a minute longer and I really _do_ think he’s going to deck me, but he must have remembered that fistfights don’t exactly follow social distancing rules, because he backs off.

“Just stay away from my plot, and stay away from me.” With that, he heads to his car, grabs a stack of books from the trunk, and disappears back into his apartment.

What a douche. I can’t remember why I even bothered talking to the guy in the first place.

* * *

_Baz_

We've been under lockdown for nearly a month. It's become increasingly difficult to get fresh produce from the grocery store, since the delivery spots fill up so quickly. People are still in panic mode, buying so much more than they need.

That makes me sound like a hypocrite, but I bought my food storage bit by bit over several weeks. I would _never_ try to buy ten sacks of flour at once. It's not even remotely the same.

I'm glad I started planning my garden plot early, too. The community garden slots vanished the moment people realized quarantine could be a long-term thing. People started sharing Facebook messages about how it feels like wartime and how everyone should plant a "victory garden" like in the good old days.

As always, I was one step ahead.

My seeds should be arriving this week, and my transplant seedlings should arrive the first week of May. I've already planned the layout of my garden. 

I would be prepping the soil right now, but Snow already did that. I yelled at him for it, because I'm chronically ill-tempered, and I don't know how to interact with him amicably anymore. It bothered me to see him standing in my plot, swinging a hoe at the ground, making all sorts of indecent grunting sounds as he worked. So, I snapped at him.

The truth is, he saved me a lot of time. And he seems to know what he's doing. I've been observing him, taking notes on everything he does to his garden so that I can look it up on Google and pretend I know what I'm doing.

My Aunt Fiona says the most useful skill anyone can learn is how to properly Google something. It sounds ludicrous, but it's true. A quick, well-worded, efficient Google search done surreptitiously can make a person appear to have fountains of knowledge inside their head on every subject possible. I do it in class all the time. (No one needs to know that even after 10 years of studying French literature, I still sometimes struggle with the _passé simple_.)

I peek out the window. Snow is out there as usual, mixing something in a large bucket. I watch as he pours some of the bucket's contents into a watering can and sprinkles it over the soil. He's watering areas where I know for a fact nothing has been planted yet, and from the look of the sky, it's going to rain all afternoon. I can't imagine what on earth he's doing, but it must be important. I go outside to find out.

"Snow," I call out as I approach.

Snow startles, nearly dropping his watering can as he looks up. 

"Baz! Don't worry, I wasn't doing anything to your plot. Just the other ones. Not yours. Don't be mad?"

I frown. He almost looks scared of me. I don’t want that, but I also can't bring myself to be kind to him.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, stopping a safe eight feet away. "Why are you watering if it's about to rain?"

"Oh!" He says, seemingly surprised that I'm not yelling at him. He even smiles at me. "This is pest control. So grubs and other things don't eat the roots of the young plants."

"Pesticides?" My frown deepens. I don't like the idea of Snow spraying pesticides everywhere. I plan to eat what I grow, and I don't want to ingest poison. "I thought you'd know better than to spray poison all over a community _vegetable_ garden, Snow."

His eyes go wide. "Oh, no! That's not what this is. These are worms. They, uh, eat the grubs. But they don’t eat the plants. They're called beneficial nematodes."

I take a step forward so I can see what’s in the bucket. It looks like plain water to me. I tell him so.

"They're microscopic," he says, as if that were obvious.

"That sounds made up.” Maybe he’s messing with me. He probably thinks he can say any scientific mumbo jumbo he wants to, and I, the humanities student, will be gullible enough to believe it.

"It's not made up," he says. "They're parasitic worms, but they've got to be really small because they're parasites of the grubs, right? So they're small compared to grubs, which means they're really, really tiny to us. But they're in there! Look." He digs around in his pocket, then holds out a small paper packet to me. I inspect it from a distance to avoid contamination. A brightly colored cartoon worm lounges next to the words "keep pests away nature's way!” Block letters above it spell out "One Million Beneficial Nematodes."

It’s enough to convince me. The packet is so small, the worms would have to be microscopic in order for a million of them to fit in there.

"Alright then," I say. "Go ahead."

"Go ahead… what?"

"You can put some on my plot if you want to." I turn around and head back to my apartment before he can respond.

A few minutes later, I peer through the blinds to see him sprinkling invisible water worms on my little section of the garden, carefully covering every inch of it.

I sigh.

Even if he were attracted to men, or by some miracle attracted to _me_ , we would never work out. He's too _good_. Too kind, too forgiving. Too selfless. I don't deserve someone like him.

But, I'll take what I can get, and right now that’s watching him work, admiring the sunlight reflecting off his tawny, speckled skin.

* * *

_Simon_

Baz has been easier to be around lately. I'd say he's been almost friendly by his usual standards. I still go to the garden most days, and he acknowledges me now whenever he walks past me. He goes out to his car to grab books once or twice a day. I wonder how many books he has in there. I never see him put them _back_ , but he must have moved at least fifty of them into his apartment by now. Why doesn't he just bring the rest of them in?

I consider offering to help, but decide against it. He's touchy about accepting help, I've noticed.

I've been helping him with his garden, but I have to make sure he thinks it's his idea. I make a big show of it every time I'm doing something new, and sure enough, Baz gets curious and comes to ask me about it. I tell him what I'm doing, and either he'll wait for me to explain it, or he'll turn around and poke at his phone for a while (on Google — he's not as subtle as he thinks he is). Then he'll tell me I can do it to his plot too, as if he's the Queen and he's just granted me a special favor.

Today, though, I can’t wait for him to ask. I'm going to have to intervene.

It's the first week after the last frost date, and Baz and I are both outside planting, along with a few of our neighbors. We haven't talked much this morning, but he hasn't been snippy with me either.

The problem is, he's printed out this colorful diagram of the layout for his garden, and it's all wrong.

He's put his potatoes in the middle, and a ring of sunflowers around the edge. His tomatoes are on the opposite side of the plot from his basil, and his beans are lined up next to his onions.

It would be a very pretty layout, but since I assume he actually wants his plants to produce food, what he's planning is just not going to work.

He's going to bite my head off for it, but I decide it’s worth the risk.

"Hey Baz? Is that the layout for your garden?"

His head snaps up and he looks at me, surprised that I'm talking to him, I guess. I point at the diagram.

"Yes," he says, narrowing his eyes at me. "Why?"

"Because, uh, you probably want to keep your sunflowers and potatoes separate and farther away from the rest of your plants. Their roots can interfere with other plants. And it's good to keep tomatoes and basil together to help prevent pests and disease."

Baz glares at me. "Did I ask for your commentary?"

"No, but—"

"Then shut up, Snow. I'll plant things how I want to."

"It's just, it's called companion planting. It can boost production and keep your plants healthy."

"I don't care what it's called. I want them arranged like this."

"Alright, Baz, it's your plot. I'm just trying to help."

"I don't want your help," he snaps. Then he snatches up his stack of seeds and the tray of seedlings and stomps off to his apartment.

It could have been worse.

_Baz_

I look it up as soon as I'm back in my apartment.

_Companion planting._

Apparently, it is pretty important. Some plants are really good together, protecting each other and sharing nutrients. Bushy plants shielding sensitive plants from too much sun. Strong smelling herbs keeping pests away from their neighbors.

On the flip side, there are plants that should absolutely never be next to each other. I guess sunflowers don't play well with others. Neither do potatoes.

I think if I were a plant, I'd be one of those. Not sunflowers, those are too cheery. Potatoes, perhaps. They’re bland, they don’t like the sun, and not many things will grow well in close proximity to them.

Yes, I think that's what I'd be. Even if my name _is_ Basil. Basil (the herb) is much too sweet and versatile to truly fit my personality. 

With a small sigh, I pull up my diagram again and start rearranging. Carrots next to beans. Tomatoes next to basil. Onions next to carrots. Onions far away from beans. And so on.

It's actually kind of fun, figuring it all out, like completing a logic puzzle. I spend a few hours trying different combinations until I settle on what (according to several organic gardening blogs) should be the most efficient layout.

I wait until Snow finishes up and heads back inside, and then I spend the rest of the afternoon planting my seeds and seedlings in neat rows, each one next to its companion.


	2. Slug dicks, duck dicks, and echidna dicks, oh my!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon go slug hunting. Simon educates Baz on the giant blue glow-dicks of the animal kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos :) I've only been active in this fandom for a little over a week, and I'm already so overwhelmed with the warm welcome and encouraging support you all have given me.

_Baz_

I leave my apartment one morning near the end of the month to find that something has eaten my radishes overnight. Several leaves are missing from the tiny sprouts, and the remaining leaves have holes in them. They were fine yesterday.

Pulling up Google, I frantically search:

_Radish pests eating young seedling leaves overnight_

_Garden pests common to the eastern united states_

_Young radish plants common pests_

_Do birds eat radish seedlings_

_Identifying insect damage to radishes_

_Identifying garden pests from leaf damage patterns_

Google provides dozens of articles that list commonly pesky bug species, each with a photo or two and some control measures to take once you've identified the problem. However, I still have no idea how to identify what exactly is eating my plants. There aren't currently any insects _on_ them to identify.

An examination of Snow’s plants reveals that his have some leaf damage too, though not as much as mine. For once in my life, I swallow my pride, refusing to let my first garden fail. I'm going to have to talk to the resident biology expert.

I pound on his door, not really caring if he's still asleep. This is a time of crisis.

"Snow! Open up!"

There’s grumbling and shuffling on the other side of the door.

"Open the door, Snow! It's urgent." I pound on the door again, even though I know he already heard me.

The door flies open to reveal a grumpy, unamused Simon Snow.

"Whaddya want, Baz?" he mumbles. He looks like he just rolled out of bed. He probably did. His hair is sticking up in every direction, his eyes and lips puffy with sleep, and he's wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. I force my eyes to stay on his face.

"Something ate my radishes," I inform him. 

He blinks at me. Then rubs his eyes. Then blinks again.

"So…"

"So something ate my radishes. We need to fix this. Come on."

He laughs at that. "Uh, hold on a sec, Baz. First of all, I'm not dressed. Second of all, this can wait. It’s not _that_ urgent." 

He starts to shut the door, but I stick my foot in the doorway. He slams it on my toes.

"Ow! What the fuck!" My eyes water, and I yank my foot back.

"Oh my god I'm so sorry! That wasn't— why'd you put your foot in the door in the first place?"

I glare at him. 

He huffs at me. "Come on, Baz, your radishes can wait. I'll help you with them once I've had breakfast.”

That’s not good enough. Snow can make breakfast last all morning when he wants to (I've seen him in the campus dining hall).

"I'll bring you breakfast," I offer. "Just go check on the garden, will you? Now?"

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Meet me down there in twenty minutes. If you forget breakfast I'll bail."

* * *

_Simon_

I'm not sure what I expected when Baz said he'd bring breakfast, but it wasn't this. 

He’s sitting cross-legged on the other side of the picnic blanket from me. There's practically a full brunch spread out in front of us. He's brought cut fruit, chocolate chip muffins, toasted bagels and cream cheese, orange juice, and even some sausage links. I have no idea how he managed to put all this together in twenty minutes.

Baz is shaking his head in disbelief, muttering to himself. "Slugs, fucking _slugs_. Nasty shell-less snails."

"Baz," I say.

He ignores me and continues mumbling. He’s typing something furiously into his phone. Every so often he pauses to snort at whatever he’s reading and shake his head again.

"Baz."

“Slimy bastards. Fucking _slugs_!” 

“Baz.”

"What?" He snaps.

"It could be worse. Slugs aren’t that bad."

He rolls his eyes again, never taking his eyes off his phone. "They seem pretty goddamn awful to me. None of the natural control measures are effective, and as I have said several times, I’m not going to spread _poison_ around the vegetables that I’m planning to _eat_. And some of the ‘solutions’" (he drops his phone to make quotation marks in the air with his fingers) “are just plain ridiculous. I mean, listen to this:” he picks up his phone again and reads to me, “‘use companion planting to your advantage by placing sacrificial plants near the important plants; slugs will eat the companions instead, leaving your plants unharmed.’ That’s barbaric!”

“How is that barbaric?”

“How would you like it if someone gave _you_ a companion and then said, nevermind, don’t get attached, their only purpose is to get _eaten_?”

He’s so dramatic. “Um, I don’t think plants have feelings, Baz, but sure…”

“Never mind. The point is, I don’t see how to get rid of them. I suppose I could try the beer bowl thing…” He picks up his phone and starts tapping again.

“Yeah, slugs are annoying little bastards,” I agree, polishing off the last bit of food on my plate and licking my fingers. “But they didn’t do any irreversible damage. Your plants will grow back. And we can get rid of the slugs. Not with beer, though."

"Alright then, how do we get rid of them? Salt?"

"No, that could burn the roots if it gets into the soil. The best way is to pick them off."

He looks at me like I've just suggested he shave his head. (I would never. He has such luscious hair, black as midnight and falling in soft waves to his shoulders.) 

"Pick them off," he repeats.

"Yeah. They're nocturnal. You gotta go out at night with a flashlight when they're feeding. They'll be easy to spot then, when they're not hiding. Then you just… pluck them off. It's pretty simple, as far as pest control goes." Then, just to tease him, I add, “And don’t worry, it’s all completely organic.”

"You want me to come out to the garden in the middle of the night with a flashlight to hand-pick slugs off the plants? Can't you just, like, spray more of your microscopic worms or something?"

"It doesn't work like that. Besides, slug hunting can be kinda fun, if you don’t mind touching slimy things. Or if you just really hate slugs. It’d probably be pretty therapeutic for you to smash them. Good outlet for all this pent-up frustration of yours."

Baz huffs, a clipped exhale that displaces the strands of hair dangling in front of his face. He seems annoyed, but I think he's mostly annoyed at the slugs and not at me, for once. He always sort of looks annoyed. His lips are practically made for pouting, and his eyes turn down a little at the corners. It's quite pretty, to be honest, even if I prefer it when he smiles at me. He doesn’t smile at me much anymore, but he used to. I miss that.

"Alright," he says. "What time?"

"What?"

"What time are we going slug hunting, Snow?"

"We?" 

"Yes, _we_. I need you to help me look for them. You're the biology expert."

"I study microbes, not slugs, but sure. I'll help. Best to go around 2 am, I'd say."

He nods. "Excellent. I'll see you back down here at 2 o'clock tonight."

"We'll need to do it more than once. Go a few nights in a row, then check back twice a week or so after that for maintenance."

"Of course," he says. I’m surprised how quickly he agreed. Maybe he’s just as bored with quarantine as I am, and even smashing slugs in the middle of the night with me is preferable to sitting in his apartment alone with his piles and piles of books. ( _Smashing slugs?_ I cringe. That shouldn’t sound as dirty as it does.)

I expect him to stand up and leave, now that we've finished breakfast and made a plan to tackle the slug problem, but he doesn't. He leans back on his elbows and looks up at me, and I'm suddenly conscious of the space and the silence between us. He tilts his head, and his hair falls back from his face. It looks so soft. I wonder what it would feel like between my fingers.

I shove that thought right back where it came from. Doesn't do me _any_ good to think things like that about my neighbor (who hates me), especially during a global pandemic.

I clear my throat, trying to ease the tension a little. It’s a less hostile tension than usual, but that doesn’t make it any more comfortable. "So, uh, how's your family? Are they all safe? Healthy?"

He nods. "Yes, they're well. Yours?"

"Oh, I don’t really have a family. Grew up in foster care. Moved around a lot, never really had a permanent home."

Pity creeps onto his face. His mouth opens, but I don't want to hear whatever sympathetic thing is going to come out of it. Hearing _Baz_ say something kind and empathetic would just be too weird, and today has been weird enough already, so I plow on.

"It's okay, though, I have found family, you know? Penny, especially. She's my family now. And to answer your question, yes, she's safe and well."

"Penny… Penelope? She’s the girl who came with you to the movie night last year?" 

I'm surprised he remembers. "Yeah, that's her! She’s great. I think you’d like her."

Baz suddenly seems very interested in a particular blade of grass. "I'm glad you and your girlfriend are so happy together," he says. "And I'm glad she's safe."

I can't help it; I laugh. Baz looks up and frowns at me.

He frowns a lot. I wonder what it would take to get him to laugh. (Laughing at me doesn’t count.)

"Oh, Penny's not my girlfriend," I tell him with a grin. Maybe I'm imagining it (or simply hoping for it) but I see relief flash in his silvery-gray eyes. I wonder if his eyes are plain gray, or if they have flecks of color in them. I'd like to see them up close. Closer than six feet. "I've known her since we were in freshman year of undergrad. We met at a GSA meeting."

I think Baz's eyes widen for a second, before he schools his features back into that cool, collected mask he wears whenever he’s not scowling at me.

"Oh?" He’s picking at the grass again. "Are you… ?"

"Gender is irrelevant to my dating preferences, yeah."

"Oh," he says again.

“Are you…?” I venture, mimicking him and leaving my sentence unfinished too, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

“I’m gay,” he says, ever so smoothly, meeting my eyes.

“Cool.” It’s lame, but I don’t know how else to respond. I can’t exactly say what I’m thinking, can I? _I’m so happy to hear you confirm that you’re gay, now may I ask if you’re as attracted to me as I am to you? Because you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen and I’d really like to take you out and then kiss you senseless in my bed, pandemic be damned._ Nah. Definitely can’t say that.

He clears his throat and stands up. “I should go, I have to study.”

“Oh, okay,” I say. “What do you have to study for? Classes are over, aren’t they?”

“I’m taking my comprehensive examinations in three weeks.”

Ah. That would explain the stacks of books. Thank god I don’t have to take those. "What are yours on?"

"One is literature, one is poetry, and the last is political history. All nineteenth century."

"Sounds like a lot," I say. "So all those books in your car are novels and poetry, then?"

"Most of them."

"All in French?"

"Obviously," he sneers. 

“I read _Les Misérables_ once.” I don’t know why I tell him that; it’s not like I actually remember anything about a book I skimmed once back in high school. It’s just that this is the first civil conversation we’ve had in forever, and I don’t want him to walk away just yet. “That’s nineteenth century, right?”

His lip curls sarcastically. “Congratulations, Snow. You’ve heard of Victor Hugo. Color me impressed.”

Why is he like this? “Screw you. Everyone’s heard of Victor Hugo.”

“My point exactly.”

“Look, there’s no need to be so pretentious about it. I was just making conversation.”

“And what a riveting conversation it was.” He starts packing the breakfast leftovers into his bag.

“Whatever.” I stand up and get out of his way while he cleans everything up.

He shakes out the blanket, then pauses mid-fold. “Did you like it?”

“What?”

“Did you enjoy the book? _Les Misérables_ ?” It sounds so damn _melodic_ when he says it in his perfect French accent.

“Er, yeah, I think so. It was kinda long, but the story was interesting.” I remember that much, at least. I hope he’s not about to test me on the details. I might sock him in his snobby nose if he does.

He clears his throat. “You might like Guy de Maupassant.”

“Ghee duh who?”

“Guy de Maupassant. I have a collection of short stories he wrote that you might enjoy.” I narrow my eyes at him and he quickly adds, “the English translation, of course. You can borrow my copy sometime if you’d like.”

“Uh, okay. I could give it a try.”

He nods and turns to leave, tucking the blanket under his arm.

"Thanks for breakfast," I call after him. “And, uh, good luck studying!” He turns his head a little and I think I catch the hint of a smile. His mood swings are going to give me whiplash one of these days.

"See you tonight, Snow."

* * *

_Baz_

I should sleep, but I can’t get my mind to shut down. I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with Snow this morning.

First of all, he’s not straight. _‘Gender is irrelevant to my dating preferences,’_ he said. No, definitely not straight.

Second, Penelope isn’t his girlfriend, and she’s the only person I’ve ever seen him have over to his apartment or spend extensive time with, so he’s more than likely single.

Third, he’s got that whole tragic backstory about growing up in foster care. I already wanted to shove my tongue down his throat, but this new information makes me want to use my tongue for other things, too. Specifically, talking. Asking him to tell me everything about him. Telling him everything about myself.

And now he wants me to meet up with him in the dead of night, just the two of us, to hunt slugs. For the next few days. And then on several repeated occasions after that. It’s not a date (it would be the weirdest date ever if it were), but I’m no less worked up about it. 

How long are we going to be out there? Should I bring the blanket again? Should I bring food? Simon’s always hungry; he’d probably appreciate it. Or would he think it’s weird if I bring food? Should I wear real pants, or is this more of a go-in-your-pajamas-because-it-only-takes-a-few-minutes sort of a thing?

I start to Google _how much time does it take to hunt slugs at night_ before I realize how pathetic I’m being and make myself set my phone down. I wind up watching a few episodes of _The Expanse_ , glancing frequently at the clock while I wait. 

It’s precisely 2:02 when Snow knocks lightly on my door.

“Hey,” I say, when I open the door. He’s wearing sweatpants and a soft blue sweatshirt; that’s good. I’m glad I decided to go with joggers and a sweater.

“Hey yourself,” he responds, smiling up at me. I almost smile back, because it’s late, and I’m weak.

“So, how long do you think we’ll be out there?” I ask him. “Should I bring something to sit on?”

“Uh, sure! Yeah, it’s probably good if we sit out there for a little bit and keep checking for them, you know, ‘cause they won’t all come out at once.”

I grab the picnic blanket. After a moment’s hesitation, I snag a package of Oreos from on top of the fridge too.

Simon follows me down the stairs and across the lawn to the garden. He doesn’t talk, and neither do I, but for once the silence doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Silence makes sense at this time of night; it’s easy to be still when the rest of the world is. There’s no wind tonight, no cars driving by, no one partying or playing music. Even the birds and the insects are quiet. The sky feels wider, the air crisper. It seems wrong to disturb the stillness, like it’s something sacred.

I am seized by a nearly uncontrollable desire to take Simon’s hand. Clutching the blanket more tightly instead, I blame the stars for my lack of inhibition. They’re brighter than usual tonight, making this whole situation far too romantic.

Fortunately, we reach the garden quickly, and Simon gets right down to business. There’s almost nothing less romantic than a slug.

“Where’s your flashlight?” He asks me, turning on his own.

_Shit_. I’m embarrassed to admit that I temporarily forgot the intended purpose of our moonlight tryst.

“I have a flashlight on my phone.” It’s not a lie, though I worry it will make Simon think I’m not taking the slug invasion seriously enough.

He just shrugs. “Okay, that should work.”

After laying out the picnic blanket and setting the cookies down, I follow him to the garden plots. He kneels down by mine first. I crouch next to him, closer than I really need to be. Closer than is sensible considering the pandemic, but my self-restraint is long gone.

I might be imagining it, but he shifts toward me a little. My stomach twists — not altogether unpleasantly — at the proximity. He smells good, though it’s a scent I don’t recognize. It’s surprisingly light and delicate; it almost reminds me of cucumber, yet it’s something distinct.

“Here.” Snow passes me a rock and a small plastic container I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. I turn it over in my hands. It’s an empty butter tub. “You can either smash them into the ground, or you can pick them up and put them in there. Or both. I’ll use the ones we catch for the compost bin.”

“There’s a compost bin?” This is news to me.

“Yeah, well, _I_ have a compost bin. A semi-portable one. Landlord said I could keep it over on the edge of the property near the dumpsters.”

“Is that what you were mixing into the soil? Your compost?”

“Yeah, among other things.”

I feel like a total jerk, yelling at Snow for using his compost on my garden plot. Even I know that stuff is black gold.

“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks for, uh, sharing your compost.” I know I should also apologize for my attitude, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Simon just smiles at me. “No problem! I’m glad to help. Ooh!” He pounces on something in front of us, then drops a slug into the butter tub. I shine my phone flashlight on it to get a better look. It’s about the size of my pinky finger, slimy and gooey and gray.

I set the tub down and lean forward, aiming my light at the base of my radish plants. I see one of the little devils quite literally stretching up to reach the edge of one of the leaves. I drop it almost as soon as I touch it, gagging a little. Scowling at the mucus streaks I leave behind, I wipe my hand on my pants. Disgusting.

Simon, however, has no qualms about picking the slugs up with his bare hands. He’s already tossed three of the nasty bastards into the tub.

I smash the slug I found into the soil with the rock. It’s easier that way, and more satisfying. Snow was right; this is therapeutic.

It takes us about fifteen minutes to check and clear our combined plots. Simon puts the lid on the tub and kicks off his shoes, laying on his stomach on the blanket. I take my own shoes off and sit next to him, tucking my knees up to my chest. I peel open the package of Oreos and he reaches for one.

I grimace at him. “Aren’t your hands covered in slug excretion?” My own fingers still feel a little sticky, and I barely touched one.

He shrugs, stuffing a whole Oreo in his mouth. “They’re not toxic.”

“That’s not the point.”

He shrugs again. “I really don’t mind. It’s natural,” he says. “Besides, I wiped it off.”

He’s revolting. I take an Oreo for myself (with my clean hand, of course).

We’re sitting much closer than six feet apart. In all honesty, we haven’t been observing social distancing rules for a while now, at least not with each other. We’ve both been isolated so long that there’s really no chance of either of us catching something now. Unless the slugs have coronavirus, that is. Could slugs carry coronavirus?

“Can slugs spread diseases to humans?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “But like I said, I study bacteria, not molluscs. It might be possible.”

“What do you mean, molluscs? Aren’t molluscs sea creatures?”

“Oh, yeah, most of them are.” Snow takes another Oreo, kicking his legs behind him in the air. His socks don’t match. “But so are slugs and land snails. They’re all related.”

“Fascinating,” I say.

“Are you being sarcastic?” Snow asks. It’s a fair question; I typically am.

“No,” I tell him. It's the truth. “What else do you know about slugs?”

Simon rolls onto his back and stretches out, frowning, his arm brushing my calf. It puts his head so close to me that if I were to reach down I could weave my fingers in his curls. I reach for an Oreo instead, and take my time eating it, twisting the two halves of the cookie apart.

* * *

_Simon_

Baz _has_ to be doing this on purpose. He’s staring me right in the eyes as he licks the cream off that Oreo. I want to grab him and make him show me what else his tongue can do, but he’s just asked me to tell him more about slugs. I try to remember what we learned about them in my comparative anatomy class back in undergrad.

“Um, they’re hermaphroditic?” I say.

“Is that a question?”

“No. It’s a fact. They’re hermaphroditic. And they have acrobatic sex.”

Baz snorts. It’s almost a laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like. When leopard slugs mate, they make a mucus rope and hang upside down from it like trapeze artists. And then they sort of just… wrap around each other.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not, I swear!”

“I can’t believe you think I’m gullible enough to believe that. I’m not falling for it.”

“It’s true! Leopard slugs have enormous blue penises in their heads, and they sort of fan them out and wrap their dicks around each other—”

Baz is genuinely laughing now, and I can see Oreo remnants in his perfect teeth. “You expect me to believe that these… leopard slugs have gay sex with each other by braiding enormous blue penises that emerge from their heads?”

I laugh too. I can’t help it. It sounds ridiculous when he puts it like that. “Well, yeah. Their dicks are, like, the length of their entire body. And since they’re hermaphroditic, they fertilize each other’s eggs that way.”

Baz snorts again. “You’re making this up.”

I scoff. “I’m _not_ , I _swear_ ! Look, just look. I’ll prove it.” I grab for his phone and he unlocks it for me, handing it over. I type _leopard slug sex_ in the search bar and click on one of the first videos that pops up. It turns out to be a [ bizarre mashup of David Attenborough and porno music. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9s00jHyzXk)

I don’t have time to dwell on how weird it is that I’m watching what is (basically) slug porn with Baz in the middle of the night, because I fucking lose it when David says ‘ _the pursuer, to confirm that it’s there and ready to mate, gives the pursued a nibble.’_ Just as I manage to compose myself, Baz giggles at _‘the underside of a brush will do very nicely,’_ and I lose it again, letting lose a wholly undignified series of noises.

Most of the video consists of close-up glamour shots of slugs sliding against each other in all their slimy glory, and Baz keeps alternately gagging and cackling. The sounds he’s making only set me off more. Pretty soon my eyes are watering, which makes my nose run. I sniffle.

“Oh my _god_ , you were serious!” Baz gasps when the slugs in the video reveal their penises. “They look like glowsticks.”

"Glow-dicks," I snicker.

"Oh my god," Baz groans again. "Stop."

“I told you, I can’t make this shit up!”

“This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Just wait until you see duck dicks. Oh, or echidna dicks! Echidna dicks have four heads.”

“I am _never_ going to look at a duck’s dick, and I don’t even know what an echidna is. You know far too much about this. Should I be concerned?”

He’s right, I know way too much about animal sex. It’s not my fault that’s the only thing I retained from that class. But, if it makes Baz laugh, I have no regrets.

“Banana slugs chew each other’s dicks off after sex,” I offer.

“Ugh! Stop!” Baz complains, clamping his hands over his ears and flopping onto his back, still laughing. 

"And did you know pig orgasms can last—"

“Snow…”

"—up to thirty minutes?"

"Stop, I beg you." He looks like he's having a full-body spasm, he's shaking so much.

We’re lying head-to-toe now, so I poke him in the side with my foot. “And bedbugs will literally stab their mates with their dicks. Like, actually impale them through the stomach. It’s called ‘traumatic insemination.’”

Baz rolls over, burying his face in the blanket and groaning at the ground. “Stop, please, that’s more than enough. No one needs to know these things. I _do not_ need to know these things. I’ll never be able to look at a slug again without thinking ‘giant blue glow-dick.’”

“But I haven’t told you about the—” I abandon my next animal fact when Baz places both of his feet on my face and one of his toes goes in my mouth. “Blech! Hey!” I push at his feet, and he pushes back, snickering at me. “Gross!”

“Not nearly as gross as your animal sex facts,” he counters. “And my socks are clean.”

I push at his feet again, and he puts them back against my face. I tickle the arch of his foot and he gasps, snatching it away. “That’s cheating!”

I smirk at him. I can barely see his features in the moonlight, but I can see enough to know he’s smiling. “Ticklish, are we?”

“No.” He’s lying.

I make a show of sitting up and crawling toward him. Baz backs away, scooting back on his elbows, and I follow. He’s laughing again, and it sounds like music. I pounce.

He actually squeals when I tackle him and wiggle my fingers against his sides. I never thought I’d hear Baz Pitch squeal. But then _he’s_ tickling _me_ , and I yelp right back. We roll around for a bit, giggling and gasping, until I manage to pin both of his hands between my own.

“Truce!” Baz pants. “Truce, I call a truce.”

“Alright, Pitch,” I say, releasing him. His hair’s a mess, and there’s a twig in it. I reach over to pull it out, and my hand lingers in his hair a beat longer than necessary. It’s every bit as soft as I imagined. I like him like this, blushing and disheveled and breathless. 

I realize with a jolt that our faces are mere inches apart. Backing off, I stand up before I can do something rash. “I’m exhausted,” I announce, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my nerves. “Shall we kill a few more kinky slugs and call it a night?”

* * *

_Baz_

I think Snow almost kissed me last night. _I_ almost kissed _him._

We were watching that foul slug sex video and he was telling me all these useless facts about animal dicks (honestly, why _does_ he know all that?) and then he quite literally threw himself on top of me, tickling me and touching me.

Then he reached out and stroked my hair. _Tenderly_. And I swear he was leaning in, before he jumped up and started babbling about slugs.

I've been rattled all day. I woke up late (I didn’t fall asleep until nearly 5 in the morning), and every time I try to read, I get distracted. All I can think about is the way the moonlight reflected off his bronze hair and plain blue eyes.

There’s no way he’s into me. (Is there?)

I don’t know what to think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some art for this one! I'm trying to learn how to do digital drawings, so I practiced with one of the scenes from this chapter.  
> [You can see it here.](https://flic.kr/p/2jcBvvY)
> 
> All of those animal facts are true, by the way. I won't link pics here but if you're into weird animal facts, go forth and Google, my friends.


	3. You live in a greenhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all so much for the kind, encouraging feedback! This last chapter was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> The art at the end is how I imagined Simon's room. I tried a different style this time and used a different program, and I'm a lot happier with how this one turned out.

_Simon_

I’m curled up on my bed, reading the book Baz lent me (the stories are actually pretty interesting), when he texts me. I gave him my number ages ago, but he’s never actually used it before. Our message history is just a series of unanswered texts I sent him every few nights to let him know I was going slug hunting, like some kind of strange booty call. (He showed up every single time.)

Slug hunting was never quite as fun as that first night. I wish I’d kissed him then. We had a moment, and I should’ve just gone for it, but I didn’t. There hasn’t really been another chance. He’s been a lot nicer around me lately, less prickly, but I can tell he’s keeping his distance. He hasn’t let his guard down like that again. 

He’s never completely relaxed around me. I wish I could _do_ something about that. Make him feel comfortable being himself around me, make him understand that he doesn’t have to pretend to know something about everything to impress me.

Not that I’m not still enjoying the slug hunting nights. We talk, and sometimes one of us brings wine or snacks. Even though he’s still a bit closed off, Baz is softer late at night. He’s told me about his family — never would’ve guessed he has four siblings — and I’ve told him quite a bit about my childhood, too. Not everything — some of it is still too difficult for me to talk about — but I’ve told him the important parts, at least.

Sometimes he tells me about the books he’s reading for school, and sometimes I show him silly videos Penny sends me. (She gets them from her boyfriend Shepard. I like him. He’s funny.) 

The week of Baz’s comprehensive exams, I could tell he was really stressed out because he let it slip that he’d pulled two all-nighters in a row. Also he came to slug hunting all hopped-up on too much caffeine, and he brought a big stack of notes with him. I tried to help him study, which was a disaster because I don’t speak a lick of French, but he didn’t seem to mind. He needed a break from serious work anyway. (Of course he passed his exams with flying colors.)

I feel a little bad about keeping him up so late so often, especially since we haven’t actually _seen_ a slug in weeks, but I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before.

I set down Baz’s book and pick up my phone to read his message, ignoring the fluttery feeling I get in my stomach at seeing his name on my screen.

_BP: I harvested my first beets and spinach today._

I text him back quickly. (Too quickly. I have zero chill. Ask anyone.)

_**SS: awesome!! what are you gonna do with them???** _

_BP: Eat them, of course._

**_SS:_ 🙄 🙄 🙄**

_**SS: I meant what are you gonna make with them** _

_**SS: or were u just gonna eat them raw** _

_**SS: ??** _

_BP:_ _🙄_

_BP: I was thinking I would make a salad. There’s a recipe for one with goat cheese and balsamic vinaigrette I’ve been wanting to try._

_**SS: oooh fancy** _

_**SS: do you cook a lot?** _

_BP: Only simple things. I’m not a very good cook._

**_SS: I don’t believe that_ **

**_SS: you’re good at everything_ **

**_SS: plus you know all about french stuff_ **

**_SS: france is famous for like 2 things, yeah?_ **

**_SS: food and romance_ **

**_SS: bet you’re really good at it_ **

_Baz_

I’m glad we’re having this conversation through text, because I’m blushing like an idiot. My phone keeps buzzing as more texts pop up from Simon.

**_SS: the food I mean_ **

**_SS: like I bet you’re good at cooking_ **

**_SS: not that you’re not good at romance_ **

**_SS: i mean you could be good at that too, idk_ **

**_SS: how would I know_ **

**_SS: nevermind_ **

**_SS: I dn’t even speak french_ **

**_SS: but you already knew that_ **

**_SS: youve heard me try_ **

**_SS: my accent sucks_ **

**_SS: yours doesn’t though_ **

**_SS: sounds like music when you speak french_ **

**_SS: was that weird to say?_ **

**_SS: you can cut in here anytime, you know. say something_ **

**_SS: say anything. save me from my embarrassment_ **

Is this flirting? It feels like flirting. Then again, half the things we say to each other lately feel like flirting. I wonder if Simon is actually that oblivious to my interest in him, or if he’s just exceptionally stubborn and is waiting for me to make the first move.

_BP: Why don’t you let me show you?_

_This_ is flirting.

**_SS: what_ **

**_SS: the romance?_ **

**_SS: baz are you flirting with me??_ **

Yes.

_BP: I meant, let me cook something for you. Then you can make an objective judgement about my cooking abilities. One that isn’t based purely on speculation and stereotypes._

**_SS: oh_ **

**_SS: sure_ **

**_SS: though tbh any opinion i have about you is gonna be at least a little biased_ **

I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. I type out a response, and hold my finger over the send button, second-guessing myself. I really shouldn’t be this nervous about asking Simon to dinner. I thought it would be easier over text, but this is still making me terribly anxious.

I see three dots appear that indicate that Simon is typing something. I decide to wait to see what he says before I send anything, just in case.

**_SS: . . ._ **

**_SS: . . ._ **

**_SS: . . ._ **

He’s taking forever. Simon never thinks this hard before sending messages, exhibit A being that stream of texts from earlier. 

Finally, his message arrives, complete with proper punctuation and capitalization for once.

**_SS: Want to come over later? For dinner? You can bring your salad, and I’ll cook something too._ **

My stomach clenches. I hastily delete my drafted message and type out:

_BP: I’d love to. What time?_

**_SS: 7:30?_ **

_BP: 7:30 is perfect._

**_SS: cool!!_ **

**_SS: sys_ **

**_SS: :)_ **

* * *

_Simon_

I wish I’d specified that I wanted this to be a date. I forgot to mention that bit. I mean, I’m glad that Baz is coming over even if he _doesn’t_ think it’s a date, but if I knew for sure that we're on the same page, it would help me decide what to wear. 

If this is a date, I want to be dressed for the occasion, but what if it’s not? It’ll look weird if Baz shows up in his joggers and I’m just standing here in my own apartment in a button up like a dork. No one chills out in their apartment during quarantine in a button up for no good reason. Not even Baz would do that. (I’ve seen his quarantine outfits. He owns nearly as many pairs of joggers as I do. And his bum looks positively _celestial_ in all of them.)

I consider the shirts again. Lounging habits aside, I figure Baz’ll probably put on real pants even if he thinks this is a casual thing. I just _know_ he has a whole wardrobe of fancy clothes he’s probably dying to have an excuse to wear. He always wore super fancy clothes to school, and I don’t think I ever saw him wear the same outfit twice. I’d've noticed if he had.

I put on my nice shirt.

It’s just in time, too; Baz knocks on the door as I’m doing up the last button. It takes me two tries because my hands are a bit sweaty. I take a deep breath and wipe my palms on my jeans before I cross the room and open the door for him.

I can hardly keep my jaw from dropping. Like, I’m aware that I’m staring at him, but I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s wearing black jeans that hug his legs in all the right places (and leave very little to the imagination). Tucked into them is a silky black shirt with red and silver geometric designs stitched into it. He’s left the top three buttons undone, showing off a few inches of skin and the barest glimpse of curly black chest hair. _Christ._

I force my eyes away from his chest and up to his face, and — _lord almighty_. He’s let his hair fall soft and loose around his face, framing sharp cheekbones and grey eyes rimmed with shimmering silver. I feel like I'm looking at the moon and the stars.

“Er, hi. Hi Baz,” I eventually manage to choke out. I step aside. “Uh, come in.”

He brushes past me (he smells amazing) and stops, taking in the sight of my apartment. The way he’s looking at it makes me self-conscious. Our apartments are mirror images of each other — small, one-room studios, each with a closet, a bathroom, a window overlooking the lawn, and a kitchenette — but his is so much more spacious and organized than mine. (I saw it once, when he finally let me help him move the rest of his books in.)

There’s a reason I don’t usually invite people over to my place, and the reason is that there’s nowhere to sit but my bed or the floor. I’d rather hang out at Baz’s (and I’m sure he would too), but it felt weird to invite myself over, so here we are.

“I brought salad,” he says, holding a large bowl out to me.

“Oh, cool. I mean, thanks. It, uh, looks really good.” I take the bowl from him and set it on the counter behind me. “So, do you— Baz, is that— Are you wearing eyeliner?”

He raises one eyebrow at me. “I am. And you live in a greenhouse.” He gestures at, well, everything. Nearly every surface has some sort of potted plant on it.

I laugh. “Yeah, can’t stop buying them. At first they really helped brighten up the place, but I think I’ve gone a bit overboard. They’re starting to crowd me out. There’s more in the bathroom.”

Baz slips his shoes off and crosses the room. He nudges the bathroom door open to peek inside, and chuckles when he sees it. “Snow, do you seriously have a plant _inside_ your shower?”

“It’s a tropical plant. It likes the humidity!”

Is that weird? Do other people not keep plants in the shower? I thought I was being practical.

Baz joins me in the kitchen, and we load up our plates. I made roasted chicken, since it goes with everything, and I didn’t want to overshadow whatever Baz made. He can play modest all he wants, but I _know_ his salad is going to be delicious. No one who’s actually bad at cooking uses words like _vinaigrette_ and makes mental lists of fancy goat cheese recipes they want to try.

I take our plates over to the nightstand (had to move a few plants to make room) and pour a glass of red wine for each of us. I relocate a couple more plants to the bookshelf so we can use the stools they were resting on.

“I hope you don’t mind sitting on a stool. I never really got around to buying actual furniture. Didn’t plan to be here this long, you know?”

"I don't mind."

Baz lowers himself onto one of the stools, stretching his long legs out in front of him. I dunno how he managed to make that look graceful. I feel like an oaf; the stool is so short that when I sit, my bent knees end up somewhere around my ears, and when I try to stretch my legs out like Baz did, my stool wobbles and I nearly fall over backward. I really hope I don't make a fool of myself tonight.

_Baz_

I’m going to kiss him tonight.

Snow didn’t specify, so I dressed optimistically, but now I’m sure that this is a date. A proper date. I am actually ( _finally_ ) on a proper date with Simon Snow. We’re squatting awkwardly on tiny stools in his apartment finishing a meal we both cooked, and he wore what I assume is his nicest shirt for me. (I wore my favorite shirt for him.) It's a perfect evening.

Even if I’m wrong and it’s not a date, I don’t care. I’m still going to kiss him. I’ve waited long enough, and he’s not likely to stay in town much longer after the pandemic ends. Things have been looking up virus-wise lately, which means my window of opportunity is closing, and I refuse to let him leave before I take a chance.

I realize it’s been several minutes since either of us has said anything. To be fair, we’ve both been stuffing our faces. I don’t know what exactly Simon did to this chicken, but it’s delicious. He went heavy with the spices, and it’s perfect. It puts my salad to shame.

“When you say you’ve been here longer than you planned, is that just because of the pandemic? Your program finished in April, right?” I ask. (It did. I looked it up.)

He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “Should’ve been done, yeah. But my experiment got delayed, and I can’t go to the lab now, obviously. I’ll be here at least until next summer, maybe longer if we can’t go back to the lab in the fall.”

He seems upset about it, so I decide not to tell him how very _not_ upset I am. I’ll be tied down here for at least four more years, and I wouldn’t complain if Snow stayed here with me for another one or two. (Or forever.)

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must be very discouraging.”

He squints at me. “You don’t look very sorry.”

“I am, truly. I know it’s frustrating for you. But I must admit, I’ve gotten used to your company lately, and I don’t have many other friends here. I’m afraid my life would become quite boring if you moved away.”

“You think we’re friends?”

He gives me a smile, and I let the corners of my mouth turn up in return.

“Aren’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess we are.” He takes a sip of his wine and sighs again, his smile fading. “I just don’t know if I can afford two more years of school here. I lost my job ‘cause of the pandemic, but they didn’t stop charging me tuition even though I haven’t done shit this semester. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs already. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about that.”

One of his hands is resting on the table between us, mere inches from my own hand. I reach out and brush the back of his hand lightly with my fingertips. He flips it over, turning his palm up in invitation, and I slip my fingers between his. He gives my hand a little squeeze, and my heart squeezes in echo.

“It’s just—” He starts, then hesitates, looking down at our hands clasped between us. Then the words spill out all at once. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t remember why I wanted this in the first place. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life after this. I don’t have a plan. I think. . . If I’m being honest with myself, the only reason I’m here is because I didn’t know what else to do, and school was all I knew _how_ to do. And now…” 

I rub my thumb against his knuckles, stroking them in what I hope is a comforting manner. His palm is a little sweaty, but the warmth feels so nice against my cold fingers. I'm trying desperately to focus on what he's saying.

“You don’t have to have everything worked out yet, Snow. You’ve still got plenty of time to figure it out.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and shakes his head. “This is a pretty expensive way to ‘figure things out’, don’t you think?” He raises his eyes to mine and lets out a halfhearted laugh.

“True. There are plenty of other things you could have done. You could have run away to live alone in the wilderness… you could have spent your life’s savings on a souped-up hog of a motorcycle… you could have adopted a hundred potted plants…”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, but he’s grinning at me. 

“Seriously, though,” I say. “It’s okay if you change your mind about being here. About doing this. It’s not worth the time and expense if it’s not something you really want.”

He shrugs. “I know. I just don’t want to have wasted all this time, you know?”

“I know.”

“Although…” He’s lightly scratching my palm and my wrist, tracing up and down the inside of my forearm with his fingernails. My skin is on fire, and it feels divine. For him, I’d willingly burn. “I suppose it wasn’t entirely wasted,” he murmurs.

“Oh?” It’s closer to a breath than a word. Never mind that I can speak four languages fluently; right now I couldn’t form a sentence in any of them.

“Yeah.” His plain blue eyes are locked on mine, and I couldn't look away if I tried. “Even if the whole program is a bust, I’ll still be glad I came here. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you, and I wouldn’t have f—” He freezes, his eyes widening slightly. “Never mind.”

He rips his hand away from mine, and my skin feels bare and cold without his touch.

“What is it, Snow? What were you going to say?”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

He stands abruptly and gathers our plates, taking them to the sink. I stand too, stretching my legs, and limp after him with the wine glasses. I was so absorbed in our conversation (and distracted by Snow’s hand) that I hadn’t noticed my leg falling asleep. It tingles uncomfortably when I step on it, and I have to concentrate in order to avoid losing my footing.

Simon’s already started doing the dishes, and I feel a bit useless watching him, so I grab a dish towel and dry a plate.

“Baz, you don’t have to do that. Go sit down.”

I snort. “Where? You don’t have any furniture.”

“There’s a drying rack right here. You really don’t have to dry them by hand.”

I ignore him. He shakes his head at me, but passes me one of the wine glasses anyway.

We make short work of the dishes, and then we both stand there awkwardly, looking at each other. I don’t want to leave yet, but I can’t think of an excuse to stay. My earlier confidence melted away when he pulled back so suddenly. I want to ask him what it was he had been about to say. I want to ask him why he pulled away. I want him to touch me. Again. _Christ, I want him to touch me again._

“Well, uh, thanks for coming over,” he says, clearing his throat and breaking the silence. “Your salad was incredible, really. Guess that proves me right, then! You _are_ good at cooking.”

“If you say so.” That’s not what I want to say. “Thank you for inviting me over tonight.” Still not what I want to tell him. “We should have dinner again sometime.” That’s a bit closer, but still not what I mean.

He nods, and he’s smiling at me. “Yeah, that’s… That would be nice.”

“It would.”

“Yeah.”

He brings a hand to the back of his neck and tugs on his bronze curls. The words I want to say are all jammed up in my throat. I try to clear it, to let them out, but they stay exactly where they are. So, because I’m a constant disappointment to myself, I simply say, “It’s getting late. I’d better head home.”

“Right, of course.”

Simon walks me the two strides to the door and pulls it open for me. I slip my shoes on and step outside, and I hesitate a moment. It’s starting to drizzle. A few light raindrops hit my cheek, my forehead, my arm.

Simon is staring at me, biting his lip like he wants to say something. I want to kiss him. I told myself I was going to kiss him tonight, and I am.

I’m going to kiss him. 

“Goodnight, Baz,” Simon says, stepping back through the doorway. “So glad you could come.” He gives me a little wave, and then he shuts the door behind him.

I didn’t kiss him.

“Goodnight, Simon,” I whisper at the closed door, and then I make my way back to my apartment.

_Simon_

The moment Baz is gone and the door is closed, I turn around and sink to the ground against it. I bury my face in my hands and groan loudly. What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I kiss him?

I wanted to. I really did. I almost did it too, _twice_. First when he was sitting across from me, his soft hair framing his face and his pretty grey eyes. Then again when he was standing there in the moonlight outside my door, looking like something out of a fairy tale.

I almost let it slip that I’m in love with him.

Maybe I should have let it slip. And kissed him right afterward. Or right before. And then I’d’ve known for sure if he feels the same, rather than us dancing around each other, neither of us saying what needs to be said. Both of us too scared to take a risk.

I should have asked him to stay. I think he wanted to — he hesitated at the door — but I panicked. I was sort of freaking out. I’ve been freaking out since the moment he walked into my apartment, looking like _that_. And then his hand was on mine at dinner and _fuck_ , I was holding his hand and my brain completely short-circuited.

Baz’s hands might be my favorite thing about him, after his eyes. His fingers are so fucking elegant, and they’re perfectly proportioned. My hands are too wide, my fingers too stubby. And my palms are always sweaty. I’m sure Baz’s hands are never sweaty; his hand felt so pleasantly cool in mine.

But he was looking at me so intently, and it was too much. It made me feel too many things all at once, and I panicked and pulled away and ruined the moment _again_.

Why am I like this?

I let myself wallow for a few minutes, but then I make myself get up and get ready for bed. Tomorrow is another day. (That’s what Penny always says.) I’ll ask him out again. And I’ll make sure he knows it’s a date. And _then_. Then I’ll kiss him.

I take my time in the shower. I turn the water as hot as it will go; it stings a bit, but it keeps me from thinking too much about Baz. The aromatherapy soap Penny gave me helps, too. It’s made from borage, which is one of my favorite herbs to grow — it has such pretty purple flowers and a light, soothing scent. Penny told me once that people used to believe borage could bring them happiness or forgetfulness. I could use a little of both right now.

Never mind, I take it back. The borage soap does _not_ help, because now I’m thinking about how the main reason I plant it in my garden is because it’s a great companion plant. And what is it a good companion plant for? Okay, lots of things, but one of them is basil.

Basil.

_Baz._

It figures I’d fall for a guy named after an herb. It’s fucking poetic, really. Or it would be if we ever actually got together. Right now, it’s just fucking pathetic.

Basil is such a fitting name for him, too. There are so _many_ kinds of basil. Like lemon basil, which smells a bit citrusy (like Baz) or purple basil, which is dark and strikingly beautiful (also like Baz), or Thai holy basil, which is spicy and sharp (again, Baz). And then of course there’s sweet basil. Baz can be plenty sweet when he wants to be.

He tries to hide it, but I know him too well now to be fooled by his grumpy façade (he taught me that word). I’ve seen the way his face softens when he talks about his sisters. I know he always orders extra groceries so he can give some to the elderly couple next door so they don’t have to go out and risk catching something. Christ, he’s stayed up all night with me listening to me talk about my boring problems on countless occasions, and never once complained about it.

This is getting me nowhere.

I shut off the water and rub at my hair vigorously with the towel, as if I might be able to just _scrub_ thoughts of Baz right out of my head.

By the time I’m dressed in my pajamas and in bed, I’ve worked myself up so much that I don’t even bother trying to sleep. I turn on the TV, pull up Netflix, and sit there staring at the screen. I don’t even know what movie I picked. I don’t recognize any of the actors on the screen.

I’ve just turned the subtitles on (it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize the movie isn't even in English) when there’s a loud, insistent knock at the door.

I stumble over and pull it open, and my stomach flips. It’s raining — the kind of summer storm that's made of big, fat, warm raindrops splashing satisfyingly on the ground — and Baz is standing outside my door in joggers and a T-shirt, half-drenched from head to toe.

“Baz? Is everything okay?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, sticking his hands in his pockets and immediately taking them back out again.

“I, uh, forgot my salad bowl,” he says.

I blink at him. “Baz… you’re soaked. Where’s your umbrella?”

He looks away. “It wasn’t that far of a walk.”

“Well, come in then. You’ll catch cold out there in the rain.” 

“I’m not cold,” he says. “And I don’t mind the rain.”

“Baz, you’re always cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“Just come inside, please. What are you doing here? You know I would’ve brought your bowl over tomorrow.”

I’m worried that he’s going to catch cold out there. I reach out to take him by the elbow and pull him inside, but then his hands are on my shoulders and he’s pulling me out into the rain. I stumble through the doorway, tripping on the doormat, my chest crashing against his. My feet land in a puddle of rainwater, but I couldn’t care less.

I don’t care that my socks are now sopping wet. I don’t care that I’m standing out in a rainstorm in nothing but my pajama shorts. I don’t care about anything at all, because Baz’s lips are on mine and his hands are on my skin and he’s _kissing me_ , and I can’t think about anything else but Baz.

_Baz._

Baz is kissing me.

 _I’m_ kissing _Baz._

Our kiss isn’t anything like I imagined it would be. It’s rough and hungry. Baz devours me, and I savor him. I can’t get enough of him. His tongue is in my mouth, his wet hair is bunched in my hands, his body is pressed against mine from head to toe and it’s not enough. I can taste him; he tastes like wine and herbs and coffee and it’s not enough.

He breaks away far too soon. We stand there, both of us gasping for air, chests heaving, as the rain continues to pour down around us. (And on us. I’m nearly as wet as he is, now.) He looks me up and down. He slides his hands down my bare chest and back up again, his lips parted slightly and his eyes half-closed, pupils blown wide in the dim light from the doorway. 

He raises his head and looks at me like he wants to eat me — or attack me — and I can’t hold back any longer. I grab him by the waist with both hands. 

He trips over the doormat and pitches forward when I drag him inside, but I catch him and shove him back against the closed door. I pin him there with my hands on his hips, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. I pause just long enough to see the same desire I feel reflected back at me in his eyes, and then _I_ kiss _him_. 

He positively melts into me. He drapes his arms around my neck and pulls me closer. I bite his lower lip, and he lets out a little whimper, and suddenly the only thing I want is to get him to make that noise again. I suck his lip into my mouth, and he groans.

Baz sinks his fingers into my hair and yanks my head back by my curls. He presses an open-mouth kiss to my neck, licking and sucking at my skin and rolling it between his teeth. Marking me as his.

Am I his?

I need to know. Before we go any further, I need to know.

Reluctantly, I place my hands on the sides of his head and push him off of me.

“Baz.” I reach down and take his hands, holding them to my chest.

He raises his eyes to mine, looking up at me through long, dark lashes. He never took his eyeliner off; it’s smeared all around his eyes. His hair is disheveled and dripping, his lips are pink and swollen, and his cheeks are hot and flushed. We’ve left quite the puddle of rainwater on the floor beneath us. 

He’s looking at me like he’s… afraid? Confused? 

Vulnerable. He looks vulnerable.

He's let all his walls down for me.

“Baz, I— This is—”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and pulls his hands back. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I didn’t mean to push you.”

“No, Baz, that’s not what I’m saying. I like this. A lot. I like _you_. I just need to know… if we’re going to do this, I need to know that it’s not just a casual thing for you. Because… well, it’s not. I mean, it’s not casual for me.”

“Snow…” He says cautiously. He still looks confused, but his gaze has softened. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

I grin at him and stroke his cheek with my fingertips. He leans into my touch.

“If you think I’m saying that I really, _really_ like you, and that I’ve wanted this for so _fucking_ long, and that I meant this to be a date tonight, and that I really regret not kissing you sooner, and that I want to take you out on so many more dates… or take you _in_ on dates, I guess, because I know you have bad lungs and sometimes trouble breathing and stuff, and I know that worries you, with the virus and all, and I want you to feel safe of course, so I wouldn’t—”

He cuts me off with another kiss, but breaks away just as suddenly.

“Simon,” he says softly, and my heart stutters at the sound of my name in his mouth. “Would you be my boyfriend?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I kiss him again, and this time, neither of us pulls away.

* * *

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/188954583@N06/50081773642/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really new to this fandom, but y'all seem like super nice, cool, and creative individuals! I made a Tumblr, and I'd love it if you found me and said hello!  
> [Gampyre on Tumblr](https://gampyre.tumblr.com/)


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